A Series of Drabbles
by markovgirl
Summary: A number of Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger drabbies. For Gutter City Tomione Convention and the Tomione Kink Meme tumblr.
1. Swing

Prompt: Swing

High on a hill stood a single tree, older than most of the people who lived in the tiny village of Hogsmeade that lay below it. From the tree, hung an old rope swing, tired, dilapidated, but just about functional.

She leant back on the tiny wooden seat, hands gripping the rope on either side of her tighter, closing her eyes to let the feeling of flight overtake her. Quidditch and general broom-riding had never been for her, she felt far too unstable being that detached from solid ground. A soft breeze rolled over her face gently as she soared back and forth. The blue of the sky melded together with the mellow white of the clouds as she sped through the air, rhythm steady like a pendulum. Hermione had always loved swings and the feelings they brought. As a child she had always headed straight to the swing set when she had frequented the school playground. It was a rare occurrence to find Hermione out of the library, but she found solace and peace on occasion listening to the wind whistling past her ears and the cold air beating against her cheeks. Just as she began to enjoy herself, the ride was halted abruptly. Something pulled against the left rope, thrusting the tiny swing round to the right, before stopping entirely. Hermione kept her eyes focused on the ground, recognising the presence now beside her. She could imagine him, hand clamping tightly around the rope, standing tall over her. His eyes would be glinting, cheekbones defined sharply in the sunlight, dark curls ruffling gently in the breeze. She couldn't quite picture his expression - he was fairly unpredictable in his emotions.

"I didn't think you'd show your face," he said, voice quiet. She had always admired his tone, deep and velvety, it had a way of making everything seem perfect. One kind word from him would bring happiness to the surliest soul, equally, one curse could end your life.

"I'm a Gryffindor, I'm meant to be brave," she replied, finally turning her head to look up at him. Tom stood just as he'd pictured him, face expressionless and passive.

"Still."

He stepped forward, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, chin raising slightly to look at the village below. Hermione couldn't gleam what his intentions were now, she knew better than to think him peaceful. Tom Riddle was nothing but a threat to her.

"I'm still not joining you," she said, staring at his back.

"I know."

The sun was starting to set over the little hill, causing his figure to cast eerie shadows on the grass at her feet. As he turned slowly, she pulled herself off the swing, her head tilting upward to meet his gaze. They watched each other intently - she, waiting for him to throw a killing curse at her for her final refusal, he, mulling over his next move.

"So, are you to kill me now, Tom?" she asked, watching him wince at her use of his name.

"Only you call me Tom anymore," he said, tone still strangely soft.

"That's because you are - Tom, I mean," she replied, voice shaking slightly.

He let out a short laugh, moving closer to her. Her body shook slightly, he observed, though her face showed nothing but resilience. Hatred. He could never bear that look in her eyes, the way she frowned at him. His hands skimmed over her shoulders, moving up around her neck to gently stroke her skin.

"You know I love you," he breathed, leaning down to brush his lips against her. He could feel her hands against his chest, pushing him away. He leant back, one hand running through her hair to grip the strands tightly. She looked shocked, her eyes bulging widely in her head, a whimper escaping her lips. "Hermione, why do you deny me everything?"

"Because you deserve nothing."

"Do you not realise that I love you?"

"I do, and there is nothing more torturous to me," she snapped back, just ask he leaned into her once more. His lips ghosted over hers, causing then to tingle gently. She wanted to kiss him, but she knew that there would be no turning back if she gave into him.

"There is no way that you would consider accepting me?" he whispered, pressing his kisses lightly around her jaw. The girl shuddered in his arms as he moved back to take her mouth, both hands running through her hair, lovingly. He leant back, eyes twinkling with hope. She knew under that hope was manipulation, hate, a wolf in disguise.

"No, Tom. No more," she whispered, pressing her hands into his chest. His beautiful eyes clouded, the irises melting into an alluring shade of ruby.

"But I loved you. I absolutely adored you - I would have given you everything, Hermione," he hissed, hands tightening in her hair. She winced at the feeling.

"You can't have everything To-" she was cut off when he violently twisted her head. A loud crack resounded across the landscape, followed by a small thud as her body slithered out of his grip, flopping onto the ground. He gazed at her for a moment, hating the way her neck stuck out at an odd angle, before turning from the scene. As he walked down the hill, hands stuck back in his pockets, he kept his eyes wide open, refusing to blink. He knew if he did, the tears he felt brewing in the corner of his eyes would fall.


	2. The Restaurant

**Prompt:** Tom touching and fingering Hermione under the table at a nice restaurant.

_(It's AU, by the way. Tom is another wizard in Hermione's time.)_

She hadn't wanted to go out that night. It was cold, drizzling slightly and her day at work had been far from pleasant - Harry had buggered up the sequence of Runes that they had been working on and it had taken far longer to rectify than she had hoped. Tom had sent her a letter this afternoon to let her know that she needed to be home by seven. There was no other detail, or information of use, just 'be home by seven'. She had been sort-of-seeing the director of Defence Against the Dark Arts for a short while now, after meeting him at a debate in the Ministry where she worked, though she was reluctant to let him too close. When they had first met, their views clashed significantly, and after that he just kept appearing in the same places as her. He was such a difficult character, caring one minute, then possessive and demanding the next - it was always a nightmare trying to gauge what his reaction might be. She suspected him of dabbling too much with the subject matter he taught at Hogwarts; one night she had discovered a number of books on dark, blood magic in his bedside table. She hadn't confronted him about them, but made note to watch for danger, should it arise. She hadn't seen him for a week or so now, or answered the letter he sent her a few days ago. None of this was intentional, of course, she had just been busy working with Harry on these blasted Runic sequences. She had no idea why he wanted to meet her at seven, no scheduled events or plans came to mind. It would be fine, she thought, he probably just wants to get a drink in the Leaky Cauldron and talk and whatnot.

When she arrived in her apartment two hours later than expected, she hadn't expected him to be there, waiting for her. He had been leant against the kitchen table, arms crossed, legs folded at the ankle, eyes boring holes in her head. He was dressed impeccably, in a dark suit and purple button up, dark hair neatly parted - prim and proper, very Tom. Hermione began to ask what on earth he was doing there, but the way he looked down at his watch and then jerked his head towards the bedroom halted her. His stony expression told her she was in trouble.

"Get changed, now. We're going for dinner."

"What? Did we plan this?" she replied, hanging her coat up on the back of the door.

"Get changed."

"No, I'd rather stay -"

"Now."

Hermione sighed, but dragged herself to the bedroom, unwilling to question him and start a duel that would inevitably ruin her home. He didn't speak to her properly during the entire journey to dinner. The establishment they arrived at was lovely, a brand new, swanky place set up in Diagon Alley by a team of international wizards. Hermione gaped slightly at the gorgeous interior as they entered - it wasn't quite the usual, rustic pub atmosphere she had been expecting. It was quite the opposite to every other eatery in the area - modern, with sleek black tables and small, leather booths that were tucked away from the eyes of others. It was dim, too, she had noticed as they say down, she almost had to squint to see the place. One significant thing of note was that the restaurant was almost entirely populated by couples. Strange, she thought, as they sat down. They were situated in one of the private booths in the far corner of the room. Hermione smiled at the table's decoration - a small ball of fire was hovering in mid-air above the centre of the table, a wizard's interpretation of a candle-lit dinner. Hermione slid in to the booth and moved around to the far side, with Tom following to sit on the next edge. He still wasn't responding to her properly - what on Earth was wrong with him, she thought to herself.

"What wine do you think?" she asked, just as a waiter approached their table. Tom ignored her and tilted his head up to smile pleasantly at the man who stood by them.

"May I take your order?" he asked, politely, sending a wide grin to both of them. Hermione looked at the menu hurriedly, not having had the chance to read the dishes at all.

"Yes, we're having the Valentine's menu, two glasses of Prosecco and a Rioja. Oldest possible. Thank you," Tom said, taking the menu straight from her hands. As he continued to talk to the waiter, Hermione's face paled - Valentine's Day. She hadn't remembered. He had mentioned dinner the last time he left her apartment, but her head had been engrossed in a complicated translation pattern, and she'd only half heard him at the time. She'd not read the letter he sent later in the week, either. And she'd been so late home, hadn't bothered making an effort…Damn, damn, damn. The waiter left them, and Tom swivelled to gaze at Hermione, who tensed under the harshness of his gaze. He must have been genuinely upset with her for ruining his plans, but there was no need to act like a brat.

"I'm sorry I forgot about all this, Tom," she began, halting when the waiter arrived back with their drinks and a bread basket. He seemed to notice the tension between the couple, because he settled the glasses, bottles and bread down and shuffled back into the darkness of the restaurant with great haste. Tom still didn't register her apology, and slid the glass of sparkling wine closer to her, taking a sip of his own in the process. The waiter returned once more with the menu Tom had ordered. It smelt glorious - a large skillet of paella, filled with large king prawns, scallops and mussels, and a variety of side dishes to compliment the Spanish theme. Paella had been her favourite dish for a long time, brought on by various visits to Spain and the covered market in Covent Garden. She was surprised that Tom had remembered that fact. Hermione smiled at the waiter as he left, a smile that quickly vanished when she saw Tom staring at her over the top of his drink.

"Right. Fine. I apologised, I am sorry I forgot, but I've had an awfully busy week at work. There is no need for you to act like a stubborn ox and make the entire evening unpleasant, Tom!" she snapped, snatching up the glass in her hand. The bubbles tickled the inside of her mouth as she took a large gulp, shuddering slightly at the strong aftertaste.

Tom's glare intensified in the darkness of the room. Hermione pouted slightly, irritated more than apologetic now, and reached for the serving spoon. His hand shot out suddenly, and grabbed her wrist, halting her action. She looked back at him, anger, and a hint of worry, in her eyes.

"Stubborn ox?" he repeated, in an emotionless tone. He pulled her wrist around and she was forced closer to him in the corner of the booth, her legs banging against his under the table. When she let out a small squeal, Tom wandlessly cast Silencing and Notice-Me-Not Charms around the booth. They were almost entirely hidden from view anyway, but he didn't want her to make a scene and catch the attention of others - not that Hermione noticed this action, she was took pre-occupied with trying to wrench her wrist from his tight grip.

"Let go, Tom! You're hurting me," she hissed, failing to shake him off.

His face finally moved from that emotionless mask as a dark smirk made its way over his lips. "Sit still, Hermione," he said sharply, as an order.

The witch let out an angry huff, but stilled her thrashing. He nodded at her and finally let go of her wrist. "There's a good girl. Better to be obedient, don't you think?"

"Better to be obedient? What sort of fucki-"

"Language, we're in a restaurant. If we get kicked out because of your bad behaviour I will be severely peeved," Tom said, reaching back down to pick up his glass.

"My behaviour?!" she cried, indignantly. "You're the one who can't even smile, or act properly around his own…"

She trailed off, not quite knowing how to finish her sentence. His own what? Not girlfriend, but - well, she didn't fuck her friends every now and then. Initially she her opposition to Tom manifested itself in trying to insult him, belittle him, essentially the same way he acted towards her. For some reason though, she couldn't stop engaging him in conversation - he was intelligent, he matched her knowledge in some subjects, and far surpassed her in others. He infuriated her because he was, more often than not, right about things. She visited Hogwarts often, to give talks in Ancient Runes for NEWT students (who were rare, these days, as the art was no longer deemed necessary) and found herself in his company on plenty of occasions. After a particularly heated row over the ethics of the Unbreakable Vow, which was enhanced by the consumption of half a decanter of Firewhiskey, he had shoved her against the wall of his office and bruised her lips with a kiss.

They fucked, hard, against his desk. Tom was animalistic, he gripped her hair hard in his fist, bit down on her skin hard enough to break through, pounded her relentlessly, as if he were trying to tear her in two. Hard enough, in fact, that Hermione shouted at him afterwards for his brutality, for the scratches and open marks he had left over her body, the way he had held her down and closed his hand around her throat when she came. He had been gentle with her, after that, he apologised, said he blamed it on the alcohol and the influence of the argument. He hadn't touched her since then, their meetings consisted solely of intellectual debate and normal conversation. Something was strange though, Hermione found herself constantly replaying that memory in her mind as he sat and talked with her. It plagued her dreams and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the vision from her head.

During the moment he held her wrist tightly, that strange feeling in her stomach resurfaced. She desperately tried to ignore it, despising herself for longing for his touch again.

"I thought this would be what you wanted. You wanted romance, all that nonsense, didn't you? I've tried recently, I really have, but it seems you'd rather spend time with Potter than me."

Hermione tensed as he moved closer to her again, his hand clenching around her thigh.

"People say romance is dead," he hissed, leaning in to her ear.

"Tom, I-"

"Don't expect these niceties again." His hand slid further up her leg, reaching the hem of her black dress, and his head moved lower, lips lingering momentarily on her the sensitive spot below her ear.

"Tom?" she gasped, as he bit her skin lightly. "Look, I know I work a lot but it's more important than-"

He bit down harder, causing her to cry out quietly. "More important than me?" he growled, pushing the hemline of her dress upwards, so it settled on her hips. Hermione stiffened and made to pull it back down, but found her hands immediately pinned to the back of the leather seat by an invisible force.

"Because I don't like that, at all. I don't like that you care more about books, and runes, and Potter, than you do about me."

"Tom, that's not the case at all, you know I like - "

"That very much is the case, darling. I haven't seen hide nor hair of you for weeks now."

"I've been working on a proje-" she began, eyes widening as she felt his hand creep higher up her leg. His fingers trailed lightly up her inner thigh, almost to her knickers, before stroking back down to her knee. He repeated the action as he spoke, enjoying the way she flinched at the sensation.

"Yes, this elusive project," he replied, lips still soft and warm against her neck.

"Stop interrupting me! And stop this, Tom, we're in public!" she snapped, in a hushed tone, not realising he had previously shielded them from prying eyes and ears.

"No," he said, bluntly, running a finger gently down the centre of her knickers. She shuddered at the feeling, her eyes darting to the darkness of the room in panic. "No, I will not stop. You need to learn, Hermione, about this - our 'relationship'. You are mine, you belong to me - I demand respect, obedience. You will learn your place tonight."

Hermione frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off when his fingers pulled her knickers to one side and ran lightly over her. He rubbed her cunt harder, roughly, then brought three fingers up to her mouth and plunged them inside. Tom smiled as he checked the room around them - no-one had even registered their presence at the table, let alone his actions. But he would milk the fear of being seen as far as he could.

"I tried to be nice, because you claimed you wanted it. But that was a lie, wasn't it? So, no more nice."

Hermione struggled, but was unable to get her hands from the invisible shackles tethering her in place. She shut her legs around his hand, only to have them pulled apart by his other arm. He plunged his fingers deeper into her throat, until she gagged slightly, then moved them back down to her sex, smiling into the skin of her neck when he felt wetness trickling from her.

"But then, I've always known you don't like 'nice', Hermione. I know you secretly adore the dark, the twisted. You like it better when I hold you down, use you, don't you? You prefer it when I'm like this, because it makes rationalising the pleasure so much easier if you can think 'he forced me to do it'."

Hermione moaned as he traced her clit with his fingers, drawing hard and firm circles around it at an agonisingly slow pace. She let out a whimper, and began to close her legs again, but he halted her by landing a hard slap to her cunt.

"Fuck!" she yelped, clit tingling from the force of the hit.

"Language, language," he tutted, hand back to stroking her gently. He teased her with feather-light touches for what seemed like hours, until she was almost on the verge of exploding. Finally, he dipped his hand lower and entered her swiftly with two fingers.

"You're wet through already, darling," he whispered, lips kissing the outer rim of her ear between words. Hermione blushed deeply at his statement and began to shake when he began pumping his fingers in and out of her at a rapid pace. "You cannot lie to me, Hermione, I know you prefer me like this."

Hermione shook her head weakly, moaning again when he curled his fingers upwards inside of her. He began thrusting his digits in and out of her at a more brutal rate, adding a third finger shortly after. The girl let out a low cry, slightly pained at the feeling of being so stretched, not that he noticed, or cared.

"N-no, Tom, I don't. Please -"

"Please what?" he murmured, as he kissed her quivering bottom lip.

"Stop," she ground out, hoarsely. Part of her meant it, he was hurting her, shaming her in front of everyone else here, she felt used and dirty and…and so overwhelmed by the pleasure that immediately after her short plea, she let out a wanton groan and pressed herself deeper onto his hand.

Tom smiled against her cheek, and chuckled darkly. "Why?" he asked, stilling his movements suddenly. He pulled back from her neck and looked at her questioningly, though he never removed his fingers from their position inside of her. He felt her muscles clench around him as she tried to bring back the pleasure he had halted. Her dazed eyes looked up at him, her cheeks flushed and lips rosy from his kisses.

"Why, what?" she replied, panting. She tried to lift her hips slightly, but his other hand held her down.

"Why don't you just admit that you like this - that this is satisfying that craving you've had since the time I screwed you over my teaching desk. I see the way you look at me, my hands in particular. What is it about them that fascinates you so?"

Hermione gasped as he moved said fingers, curling them up, just the once, to tantalise her senses. "They're - they're - the way you touched my neck."

"I see," he said, amusement in his voice.

He moved closer to her and curled his free hand around her neck. Hermione jumped and closed her eyes at the feeling, as Tom rested his forehead against the side of hers. His fingers began moving inside of her again, faster and deeper than before, and his thumb swept up to circle over her swollen clit with each stroke.

"You show everyone in this restaurant who you belong to," he murmured, tightening his grip on her throat slightly. She gasped in as much air as possible, the feeling of light-headedness enhancing the other sensations coursing through her ten-fold.

"T-Tom, please-"

"Say it."

"Say what?" she replied, weakly, back arching as she desperately tried to gain release. Tom slowed his movements considerably, and she let out an aggravated growl.

"Say you're mine."

Hermione paused, panting slightly. Tom pressed a kiss to the side of her cheek, then hissed, "Say it."

"I belong to no-one," she replied, turning her head to look at him dead on. His smug expression faltered, lips sinking into a frown.

There was a moment of silence between the couple for a moment, then Tom moved his hand for a final stroke and pinched her clit hard between his fingers. Euphoria and pain were inseperable as she came hard onto his hand, her body twisted as much as it could under his grip and a strangled moan left her mouth.

Tom moved back away from her and wiped his hands delicately on a napkin, before moving to serve himself a large portion of paella. Hermione stared at him, breathing deeply, a sheen of sweat across her face. He smiled back at her nonchalantly, and gestured to the food, silently releasing the bonds around her wrists and the wards around them.

"I'm not yours," she said, pushing herself back up to a straight-backed position. She tugged her dress down to her knees and grimaced slightly as she felt moisture pool between her thighs.

"I know. But you will be, soon," he replied, winking devilishly as he raised his glass back up to his lips.

"What makes you say that?" she snarled, snatching up her fork and stabbing a piece of squid.

"Because, Hermione, we both know you can use wandless magic. You could have stopped me if you really, really wanted to," he said, tilting his head, as a new smirk appeared on his face.

Hermione stiffened - he was right. She could have blasted the bastard to the other side of the room, but she hadn't. She hadn't wanted him to stop. This was the feeling she'd been craving ever since their first time together. But, of course, she couldn't let him know that. Instead, she snorted and picked up her glass and downed the contents quickly.

"I hate you," she hissed.

"And I you, darling," he replied. He leant over to her and pressed his lips against hers in a far gentler, slower kiss. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Fuck you."


	3. Branding

Tom slammed his glass back on the table, almost crippling the stem in the process. He leant forward to eye the contents suspiciously, frowning at the low level of liquid that remained. With a slightly foggy mind, he grabbed the bottle of red wine that sat in front of him, hiccuping slightly as he went to pour another glass for himself. There was little left in the bottle also, so he gestured to the waitress to bring him another.

"Fuck," he growled, under his breath, leaning his cheekbone against his palm. He stared strangely, off into space somewhere. He wasn't meant to be here, he was meant to be at home, asleep with his arms wrapped around his Hermione. That was before they began arguing, that is. Hermione flew off the handle when she discovered his latest horcrux, a piece of archaic jewellery, tucked away in the back of the attic of the home they shared. She'd been searching for pictures of their Hogwarts days to make a scrapbook - something he'd sneered at for being awfully sentimental - when she'd found it. He has cursed himself inwardly; he was meant to have dropped it off at that awful beach earlier that day, but never had the chance. Her face had paled, her hands shook as she held the locket in her fingers, but she didn't look shocked, it was almost as if a glimmer of recognition passed over her.

"_I thought you had changed, Tom!" she screamed, pieces of glass exploding around her as her magic blew out of control. He ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding a piece of precious china that sailed towards his head. "I thought you'd-"_

"_Hermione, let me explain, I-"_

"_No! You are just - just get out!" _

The dark-haired man wavered against the table, a frown settling over his face. She knew of his secrets, his fears, and she hadn't seemed to mind at first. She had held him whilst he wept over his fear of death, the memories of his horrendous upbringing, stroked his hair as the pain of feeling shot through his body again and again. She had wiped his tears away with her fingertips, called him beautiful, powerful, no matter what. It wasn't fair - he thought she would understand.

A thought popped into his head all of a sudden - perhaps he could make her understand. Perhaps, if he could make her see the reasons behind his intentions, behind his lust for immortality, then she would yield to him. She might hold him again, treat him like the only one. No, she was too stubborn to see. Too set in her Gryffindor ways. He would need a clearer, easier way of bringing her to his side, to make her see that he was, he would always be, her guiding light. That she should love him, regardless of his actions. She should follow him, blindly, or face the consequences. He should not be reduced to drinking alone in the middle of the night because of the petty reservations she holds.

Tom stumbled to his feet, forgetting the third bottle of wine that was on its way, and headed to the exit. He pushed open the heavy door and headed out into the cold, Winter night, mind dead-set on turning his lover into a believer. A follower.

As he walked, he replayed their argument over and over in his mind. The stupid girl, she over-reacted to everything. Why did she need to cause such a fuss, ruin his plans? Was it too much to ask, to live forever, with her by his side?

Nothing was fair anymore.

The moment he opened the door to the small cottage they shared in Hogsmeade, his blurred mind was made up. She would be made his tonight, not as a lover, or a partner, but someone who listened, who obeyed his commands. He entered the living room, catching sight of her curled up on the sofa. She was wearing one of his large, knitted sweaters, and a pair of black leggings. Her hair was mussed and wild around her face, as if she had been running her hands through it in aggravation. At the sound of the door clicking shut, she sat upright and turned to face him - he could see she had been crying. The horcrux was still wound around her neck.

"Tom?" she asked, voice thick with sadness. "What are you doing back, I told you to stay at Abraxas's or somewhere tonight?"

The man flicked his wand, sending her body flying into the air. Another spell sent her crashing on top of their coffee table, another cemented her wrists and ankles to the legs of the piece of furniture. A scream left her mouth as her back collided with the solid wood, but Tom didn't care. He just moved further into the room, wand still raised, mind still spinning.

"Tom, what on earth are you doing?" she panted. The impact against the table had winded her, and she fought for breath, struggling against her bonds furiously, face flushing a deep shade of purple.

"Mine," he stated, voice blank. Hermione gazed fearfully at his spaced expression, as he knelt down on one side of her body. He looked awful, hair unruly across his face, eyes wide and bleary - so unlike his usual prim and proper demeanor. Hermione wondered what was wrong with him until she took a deep breath in and -

"You're drunk! Oh, for God's sake. Let me go right this second!" she hissed, scowling at him in anger. "What are you doing, Tom?"

Tom didn't answer, but grabbed her right arm and released it from the invisible bond that kept it stuck to the table leg. He held it firmly, never letting her move an inch from him, smoothing the fingers of his other hand gently over her skin. Hermione shuddered at the cool feeling of his skin against hers and the way his gaze intensified. She swore for a moment a hint of scarlet shone in his dark eyes, and her breathing hitched as her mind wandered back to the image of the nightmare Tom could become. She had tried to stop him, she had desperately tried, but somehow Voldemort still wreaked havoc in the young man's mind, tainting and spoiling his brilliance.

"Such...such pretty skin," he said, eyes boring into her wrist. Hermione yanked it away from him, and tried to locate her wand, only to find that she had left it upstairs in their bedroom. "Such...pure skin."

He leant his head down and pressed his lips gently to the tender skin of her inner forearm, ignoring her cries for him to release her. His kiss turned sour after a moment, and he began to viciously bite into her, teeth tearing and chewing. Hermione let out a scream as she felt her skin break under his bite, as he tore further into her skin, clamping down over the spurting blood and ripping methodically through fat, through the outer layers of skin right down through muscle and arteries and gore. Hermione screamed, and didn't stop. She felt him struggle slightly with a particularly gristly area, incisors nipping sharply to work their way through. Eventually, he stopped and let out a groan of satisfaction as blood trickled into his mouth. He moved away slightly, sitting back on his heels and licking his lips in satisfaction.

"Which is ironic - considering your dirty blood, my love," he slurred, seemingly more intoxicated by the taste of her. He ran his fingers over the wound, and prodded the inside gently. Instantly, the skin began to reform, re-blossom, the pale cells tying themselves together slowly until all that remained was the bright red outline of -

Hermione looked down at the patch of forearm he had destroyed, then back up at the gore surrounding his mouth, and shrieked at the sight. The wound had knitted itself together to form a mark, a dark, purple scar in the shape of a skull, a serpent - a mark she knew all too well from the arms of her future enemies. She was the first, the origin of the despicable

insignia. Her screaming didn't cease.

"Muffilato."

She turned her head to look back at him, mouth agape but no sound coming out. He smiled at her lazily, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve. Tom rolled back further, and sprawled down on the ground on his backside, head lolling to one side, eye closing slowly.

"Mine now," he said, quietly, beginning to drift off. "All mine now."

Hermione writhed in painful silence as the scar on her arm twisted and flickered, a serpent, alive.


	4. Tom (prompt: Tom's POV)

"I've never-"

"You've never what?" she replied, her hands smoothing down over my chest, softly opening the buttons of my shirt. She pushed the garment from my arms, and let it flutter to the floor, another layer she'd torn off and discarded like it didn't matter. Like she'd done this before, like she'd become familiar with picking apart her lovers until she saw their bare bones, nothing more, and not caring. Her hands splayed out over my chest, barely there, barely a whisper of a touch. I shuddered under the cool sensation that her fingertips brought, goosebumps erupting over my shoulders as she carelessly circled different areas of my body. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh, reveling in the odd, unfamiliar feeling of being touched, caressed, of feeling something that wasn't nothing.

"I've never done..." I trailed off, opening my eyes to look down at her. She was stood so close, her bare skin touching my own, her mad curls fluffed framing her strangely passive features. Her ease terrified me, and a sudden panic grew in my stomach that she would laugh - she would laugh at me because I was a boy, just a boy who knew nothing about..._this. _Because I'd set my grand designs on becoming the ultimate, the most powerful, feared wizard, the Heir, the Master of Death, the Lord - but here, I was just Tom. She looked up at me and quirked an eyebrow slightly, forcing me from my hesitance. "I've never done anything like this before."

I stiffened and waited for her reaction. No laughter came, just the soft feeling of her lips against the base of my neck, her hands roaming up my back to settle in my hair. A new feeling worked its way through my body - I had no idea how to describe it - it fizzed like lemon sherbet and burnt with each kiss upon my neck. She tugged on it slightly, and guiding the pair of us backwards, until my knees hit the back of the bed and forced me to sit. She straddled my lap, her naked body pressing into me as close as she could possibly make it.

As she brought her kisses to my lips, my mind clouded with frustration. There was no magic to be worked here, I didn't know what to do - my hands remained limp at my sides, though they ached to touch her, to feel her skin, to maybe elicit some of these feelings within her. Her arms wrapped around my neck and she pulled her hips up slightly, before grinding back down into my pelvis. I couldn't hold back the breathy groan that escaped into her mouth - she seemed to like that, I could feel her smile against my lips. I pulled back, wary of what to do, if she would let me touch her, if what I was doing was stupid, wrong, juvenile-

"You are allowed to touch me, Tom," she said, nudging her nose against mine. A small smile played around her lips, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. "In fact, I would wholeheartedly approve of that."

I looked at her, dazed slightly. She would approve of that - well, that was a sign for me to...I raised my hands from the bed an inch or two, but paused. Where on earth should I begin? I knew the female anatomy, I knew the basic areas to provide sexual stimulation, but -

Hermione chuckled slightly under her breath and pressed her lips softly against mine again. Only quickly, and as she pulled back I almost tried to follow. Her hands moved down my shoulders, wrapped around my own and then she moved them up to settle on her thighs. "Tom," she whispered, hand sneaking up to tug the back of my hair once more. "Touch me."

A breath caught in my throat. It was her order, the way she took control that made my mind jolt. I could not let this witch have the upper hand, even in a realm where her knowledge clearly surpassed my own. A dark idea sprang to mind, and I couldn't hold back, not anymore, not anymore. My fingers clenched her thighs tightly, fingernails digging into her skin hard enough to leave marks. She jumped slightly at the sudden pain, and her hips bucked violently into me.

"Beg," I managed to say, voice hoarse from her movements.

Hermione stared down at me, eyes widening at my request - no, _order. _"I-" she began.

My mask was slipping. A new, unfamiliar growl left my lips and I snaked my hand up her back to pull her hair down, exposing her neck to me. The tendrils caught and tangled around my fingers, and it must have hurt if her pained mews were anything to go by. Excitement took over; a smirk spread across my lips as I moved another hand up over her thigh, to stroke over her hipbone, then down to feel her cunt. She let out a sharp breath as my fingers trailed slowly over her outer lips, up and down, repeatedly. I wanted her to go mad with desire, I wanted her to yearn, to plead for me just as I had felt for her.

"I said: beg," I repeated, ghosting my lips over the base of her neck just as she had done to me. She shuddered as my breath hit her skin, and arched her back slightly, chest jutting forward in the process. At her stubborn silence, I leaned forward and latched my teeth onto the swell of her breast, biting and sucking hard enough to elicit another soft whimper from her. Strangely, and unexpectedly, I felt moisture soaking my fingers after this mistreatment, so I moved back and raised an eyebrow toward her. With a harsh jolt, I tugged her hair upwards, so she was looking straight toward me. Her eyes were glazed over, mouth agape slightly, and her cheeks were flushed a deep shade of crimson.

"Did you enjoy that?" I asked, not to tease her, but out of genuine fascination. She hesitated, but eventually nodded as best she could under the grip of my fingers. Voldemort laughed, and overtook Tom's shuddering naivety completely, and I pulled her closer to me, growling again when her hips ground heavily into mine. I kissed her, unlike any other kiss we had shared, all careful and kind inclinations lost to the madness of the man in my head, instead rough, biting and forceful, tongue delving in her mouth, capturing her moans and cries. She shrieked into the kiss when I moved my fingers inside of her, curling and touching, experimenting to see what would gain the greatest reaction. Her wetness was soaking my hand, trickling down my fingers and eventually dripping onto the floor. With each thrust of my hand she writhed in my lap, screamed what I thought was my name into my mouth. Her little body began to shudder, and I felt her cunt rhythmically tighten around my fingers - so I ceased, and pulled them out, settling that hand once again on her thigh.

Hermione stared at me, wide eyed, short breaths rattling through her lungs at a rapid rate. Her eyes were dilated, and a sheen of sweat was visible over her skin. "Why-"

I twisted our bodies around, so her back was on the bed, and I was positioned over her. The smirk disappeared - I wasn't able to think straight, I needed her, I wanted whatever she would give, I _begged_- "Hermione, please-"

"Just shut up and take your trousers off," she breathed, her hands working quickly over my belt buckle and releasing it from its catch.

I grinned widely, and followed her lead once more, pushing the black dress trousers down over my hips. My actions had turned clumsy again, my palms were sweating in anticipation as I settled between her thighs. She leaned forward, capturing my lips in a soft, gently kiss, before she guided me into her cunt. I closed my eyes - the feeling, of tight, hot, wet, _fuck- _

When it was over, and the euphoria had left me, I looked at the exhausted witch beside me and ran my fingers lightly over the vicious bite marks that littered her body. Her lips looked raw, I tasted blood on them when I placed my mouth against hers. A number of bruises were forming around her wrists, her neck, her thighs. Tom told me to apologize, that this brutality was wrong. Voldemort reminded me of the screams of ecstasy each mark had brought from her. In the afterglow, she turned and smiled, she kissed my lips gently and ran her hands through my hair. I felt no guilt, or anger - just bliss.


	5. Sin

It was hours later when he returned to where he had left her. The morning's rays were fighting the heavy smog and cinder that had befallen the world outside of the Ministry. Despite their weak light, they had managed to penetrate his fine draperies and collide with his pale, thin eyelids. Making his way down the darkened flight of steps, he had every intension of cursing her thoroughly for not having his meals and papers already set out for him among the polished crystal and china.

As he came to the base of the stairway, he was met with a vaguely familiar and strangely comforting scene laid before him. It represented a purely violent chaos and brought a fleeting smile to his lips. Bottles of wine were strewn randomly about, some half cracked open with their rapidly drying contents pooled upon the dusty floor. He trailed his gaze along the shadowed basement walls until he found an empty space that had previously held the rickety old shelf. A shelf now overturned upon an unmoving ivory shape.

He remembered then. He remembered his fist. He remembered the way his rough knuckles collided with the baby-soft flesh of her cheek over and over and again and again. In a sickly sweet bliss he remembered how the blood had pooled from her lip and nose and dripped starkly onto her white chemise. The same chemise she had thrown on desperately to hide her freshly bathed and naked form when he had appeared without warning atop the stairs. She had been trembling from the effect the draft had on her moist skin. Her mass of curly hair had been dripping, and he had gathered drops upon his fingertips as he had whispered into her ear, "Is this not the hair of a foul, uncivilized beast?"

Approaching the shelf in dark amusement, he lifted his wand to flick it away and roughly discarded its remnants upon the floor. The shape didn't even flinch at the loud and abrupt noise. Permitting a more observant gaze, Tom decided that the shape was not white, not entirely. Some areas of the shape branched out into soft curving creams and tans marked by deep purples and blues. Those darker hues were new, he remembered, for he had put them there. Looking to his fist, he discovered it sore, and in some places, matching in the same painful colors.

Releasing a gruff and short laugh, he flung his fist to his side and re-settled his gaze upon Hermione. Hermione, the Mudblood. Tom's carefully selected Mudblood maid. His shameful enjoyment. An enjoyment he would never admit to. No, of course not. None could suspect he had enjoyed the company of the unclean. No, that would be an intolerable mistake.

Moving to the other side of the cot on which her limbs were carelessly draped, he finally met with her face. Not really a face anymore, but a shadow of what once was. The blood that had flown so profusely from her nose and lip had dried in its place, marring the porcelain beauty of her skin. Bruises were littered upon her high cheeks, blending into each other and the next, coloring her face an unnatural blush. His gaze drifted north, regretfully past her nipples, which like the previous night, were peaking rosily through the thin silk material of her chemise. In the fragile places where the weighty shelf had made contact, rigid holes were torn as was the flesh beneath. Blood singed the edges of the silk, flowering out into intricate patterns and shapes. the gashes were wide, he decided, holding a finger as benchmark to each one. They would take quite some time to heal. Closing his eyes tightly, he was overcome by brief euphoria as he imagined holding her against him, roughly taking hold of her hips, and reopening the fresh, raw wounds.

Reaching out a shaking hand, he moved his nimble fingers closer and closer to where her chest rose and fell in the weak breaths of an endless battle, a battle her body knew well. Dropping his fingertips upon the moistened span of her upper chest, he sifted them around circularly, creating patterns in the thin veil of sweat. As he approached the top hem of her chemise, her form shifted and a feeble moan escaped her cracked lips. Her blackened lids twitched in a disrupted reverie.

"Come back to me, Hermione. You have work to do."

He noticed the tiny scratched fingers of her left hand shiver then rise slightly against the cool draft of the cellar. Her eyelids, the color of the rare and expensive grapes glistening upstairs, remained squeezed shut. Her hand continued its ascension to his face. Fighting the urge to viciously slap the meek intruder away, he nearly gasped as her cool flesh collided with his own well-shaven warmth. Mouth agape, curse born ready on his tongue, he muttered something unintelligible as the blood-stained finger traced his thin lower lip.

It was then that her own bruised lips parted and she whispered. He was forced to lean near to her face to understand what it was she felt so important to make such an effort for.

_"Seraphic sin."_

Upon hearing her soft utterance, he whipped abruptly from her words and the cool touch of her hand.

"What is meant by that?"

Her eyes opened weakly, the bloodshot browns tearing at the sides. A duo of stinging salty drops gliding down her raw cheeks. She looked into him, prying him apart and working her witchery into whatever was left of his blackened, storm-ridden soul.

"Speak up you Mudblood, you filth!"

Blinking only once and taking in a shallow breath, she did not provide an answer. She did not quake in fear at the prospect of refusing his request for clarification. He lifted his calloused fist in hopes to strike her again for such insolence. Yet, before he could pursue his punishment, he wanted to see her face. He yearned to gaze upon the fear and pain that would undoubtedly be written across her gentle feminine features. Attributes he admired and enjoyed imminently. The same ones, that for his own macabre reasons, he enjoyed marring and leaving evidence of his power. Not with his wand, she brought out something animalistic in him, something violent and raw and full of hate.

But this time, her eyes glimmered, free of a fear she had endured so long. Her mangled jaw did not quiver at the sight of his raised hand, and lines of worry did not rise upon her forehead. If anything, she looked at peace with him. In contentment with her fate and willing to accept whatever he was to bestow on her. Tom was at a loss.

"Why do you not shy away from me, Hermione? Why do you not tremble?"

Without breaking her steady gaze, she whispered matter-of-factly into the air, "Forgive me, My Lord, for I am weary of your blessings."

How was it that a mere Mudblood could have such a power over him? Tom wondered, for he was befuddled by the situation. Under normal circumstances, a befuddling mudblood would mean no more to him then a flick of his wand, a curse or two, and an empty eyed body upon the ground. Hermione was different. Though he couldn't bring himself to touch her in tenderness, no more could he raise the cold tip of his wand to her warm temple. No, he enjoyed her far too much, he decided. If she were to be taken out into the woods and released of her servitude, who then would file his nails while he mulled over his tedious Ministerial documents? Who would prepare such fine meals and serve tea? Who's hair would he lean forward in hopes of meeting the scent of fresh cut roses and a kitchen during baking? She embodied a wonderful scent that endured despite the ash and smoke of rotting corpses emitted by the war outside. A battle was occurring just yards from where he sat and she lay. A battle where her family and friends were slowing losing hope and their lives with every minute that passed. A pity really, that he would not allow her to join them.

Instead, he kept her by his side, beneath his fist, and inside the walls of Riddle Manor. A different kind of prisoner, one of lesser punishments and greater rations. He wished to give her more, but could he allow himself such a shame? To touch a Mudblood...to reach out to Hermione in her loneliness. To nurture his own angst in the process.

He looked down on her once more, slowly lowering his fist to his side. His wrist collided with the chilly metal buttons on his coat and he shivered openly at the unexpected contact. She noticed his discomfort immediately, and her gaze dropped to his hand. Was he breaking before this filth? This rat? The so-named mud of this Earth? Was meek little Hermione Granger causing him such turmoil? Dropping to his knees heavily, he took her still hand in his own, squeezed it tightly and held it to his shaking lips. His black curls fell over his forehead, out of their composed coiffure, and he began to feel himself unravel.

"What are you doing to me?" he demanded gruffly in between gentle kisses laid on the expanse of her scarred fingers and torn knuckles. Wounds he had placed there, wounds he wished to multiply, yet wounds he wanted to heal. Tom Riddle's enemy was not an inferior race. It was not a Mudblood maid mercilessly at his beck and call. His enemy, however hidden from the surface, was himself.

Unmoving, she watched him as he cracked, as he spilled open, and his demons flew out with a single tear from a weary eye.


End file.
